


Happy in Another Life

by whiskeyneat



Series: Parley [1]
Category: Curse of the Black Pearl - Fandom, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 18th Century, AU, Canon Divergence, Drabbles, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlets, M/M, Pirates, slight crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyneat/pseuds/whiskeyneat
Summary: Elizabeth has four fates. A collection of loosely linear ficlets inspired by my previous work "Black Sails"."I had been tricked once by that Cheat called Love, but the Game was over." - Moll Flanders, Daniel Defoe.





	1. Letter One: Happy in Another Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Black Sails](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080848) by [whiskeyneat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyneat/pseuds/whiskeyneat). 



> These are loosely linear ficlets, meaning I write them in the order I'm inspired to write them.  
> Parley is basically this: Elizabeth has four fates. Black Sails is one fate. This fic will explore the "what ifs" of the other three. In this universe, Elizabeth has a daughter who decides she wants her father at her wedding...so she sends letters to the three men she thinks might be her father (Mama Mia, anyone?). There's also a slight crossover with Treasure Island, because it's set around the same time period, so I figured why not?

_Commodore James Norrington_

_The Neptune_

 

The letter has found him byway of the Royal Navy, if his title is somewhat in error. He is _Sir_ Commodore Norrington now. The letter is postmarked Nassau, six months previous. With curiosity and not a small measure of trepidation, he breaks the seal (a swan) with his thumbnail.

 

_Dear ~~Sir~~ , that is, Commodore Norrington, _

 

_I hope I this letter finds you well._

 

"Well" is a relative term. The body in bed next to him shifts, and he rolls away, feeling so damnably empty inside. He swings his legs over the side of the bunk, still in his nightshirt, adjourning to his desk with a bottle of rum. The letter demands it, smelling of salt spray and oleander. 

 

(Another life.)

 

_I write to you from Nassau, and I beg you will not find this message impertinent. For you see, it is also an invitation. I am to be wed._

 

The breath flies out of him and he drops the letter, fighting the old pain that rises up like the ghost of a dead lover, bloodied and bittersweet. 

 

 _Elizabeth_. 

 

He brings the page to his nose, inhaling. When he pours himself another tot of rum he realizes tears are running freely down his cheeks, though he thought his heart withered up long ago. 

 

He can see her now, as she'd last looked upon him: hate in her eyes and a pistol in her hand. _You are despicable. A pitiful excuse for a man._

 

"Yes," he groans. He'd been desperate for absolution then, and things haven't changed in that respect. He isn't ready to be forgiven by her, for he has yet to forgive himself. Yet he is drawn back to the spiky black scrawl, devouring each word like a man starved. 

 

_I have been engaged to wed ever since I met my love a year ago. He is just graduated from midshipman to ensign and  is ever so dashing. It is not enough that you wish us every felicitation in your absence. Nothing will do for me but your presence at our wedding._

 

A midshipman? James reads the line again, with not a small measure of confusion. Middies, as they are called, are boys just beginning their careers in the Royal Navy. Surely _that_ cannot be right. 

 

_You may think it a dream of a green girl, but it is my dearest wish that my father give me away at my wedding._

 

Father. _Father?_ He has no living child that he knows of. That dream is dead, buried in a bed of sandy loam beside the sea. 

 

_Mama wants us to wait until I am sixteen, and the wedding is set for June of next year in Nassau. I confess I forced her hand, vowing to run away to sea with my dear Jim, if she did not give consent._

 

_I know you are a busy man, and very important, but I have it on good authority that she would not be averse to your suit, should you wish to make an honest woman of her again._

 

_With all my deepest love, your daughter,_

 

_Helen Swann._

 

The little minx! She's Elizabeth's daughter, all right. But his? Surely the dates do not match up. He scans the missive. 

 

 _Fifteen_.

 

(Damn her.)

 

He needs another drink, grabbing the neck of the bottle and gulping it down like a common tar. 

 

He has a child after all, kept from him for all these years. James Norrington runs a hand through his salt-streaked dark hair, more white than brown with every passing year. 

 

"Fool," he reprimands himself, staring at the waves as they gently lap against the hull of the Neptune. Yet he knows he will go to her, for though she broke his heart he has never loved another woman as he loved her, and never shall again. 

 


	2. The Language of the Fan

_Mr William Turner_

_Manhatten Island, New York_

 

The letter finds Will in silks and lace, for though he is William Turner, blacksmith, he is also Princess Pearl, jewel of the molly house on -- & \--. A small black page decked out in elaborate livery brings the letter to the parlor, bowing over the Princess' hand.

"Is this my invitation to the Governor's ball?" Princess Pearl picks up the letter and eyes the young man next to her from behind her painted fan. She taps her lips and he leans over, heat behind his half-lidded eyes as he cups her stubbled jaw in his hand. Princess Pearl nips his lower lip and plunders his mouth with her own. The Princess exacts a demanding price for the pleasure of her company, but it is a price a man will pay willingly for just one night in her arms.

The letter lies forgotten on the table until morning, when Princess Pearl is once again William Turner, staid blacksmith and upstanding member of the community. He smiles wistfully to himself, for it is growing harder and harder to separate William Turner from Princess Pearl. When he turns to leave from the back door, he sees the letter left on the silver salver. A frown mars his dark brow. It is disquieting that anyone should know his secret, for William Turner should not exist in this house.

He pockets the letter, and does not draw it out again until he is in the smithy. His name is printed on heavy, cream paper, with many elaborate flourishes. It smells of frangipani and heat, and when he slices into it with a letter opener (pearl handled), white sand falls glittering into his lap.

"Father." Steven bows respectfully in the doorway. "I see the letter found its way to you. 'Twas misdelivered to Mistress Kate's establishment a fortnight past." Steven is his natural son. He has his mother's ginger coloring, and is the eldest of his three bastards, apprenticed to a printer. He keeps odd hours, and his words smack of sedition more oft than not, but his heart is in the right place. Steven once had begged for a place aboard a ship, but William Turner will have no sons who go to sea. The risk is too great that he might lose them to the Locker, or worse, to Jack Sparrow.

"Yes, son. It was delivered..." he mops at his brow and feels faint. Steven looks at him questioningly, and he clears his throat. "Thank Mistress Kate for sending it on to me." He does not, in fact, want to thank Mistress Kate. He wants, rather, to strangle her.

"Of course, Father." But Steven is still looking at him, waiting for something.

"What?" Will demands. It is stifling in the smithy, and he loosens his cravat just a touch. "If that is all..."

Steven taps his cheek and Will thinks for a moment that Steven is trying to impart a secret message.

_(Tap the left cheek for No. Tap the right cheek for Yes.)_

But no. Steven does not have a fan.

(That is something Princess Pearl would think.)

Will strokes his face and finds he has forgotten to remove a heart-shaped beauty patch. Princess Pearl adores beauty patches, they are the one vanity she cannot get enough of, and she must have a new one every week, for every new admirer.

"Damnit," Will curses under his breath, and flicks the patch into the sawdust. "Will that be all?"

"I applied today for permission to court Miss Fox." The color is high on Steven's cheeks and he is embarrassed to look at his own father.

"Aye, she'll be a good match for you." Will brushes the sand off his breeches and waits. "And you'll make journeyman soon, I shouldn't wonder." Steven is eighteen, and has been apprenticed to Mistress Kate's husband since he was eleven. Will reaches into his desk for a drink, and finds many empty bottles. Only the rum is full.

That damned sugar rum. He cannot taste rum without thinking of... _Jack._

(It is unexpectedly painful, still.)

He wonders for a moment at it, then takes a pull, waving for Steven to join him. Steven does not. He still cannot meet Will's eye.

"Mr Fox said no. He said --" Steven turns a deeper shade of scarlet, and fingers his collar. "He said he doesn't want the stain of the 'molly house' in his line."

"What?" Will's lip curls, but his belly is a knot of dread. If Mr Fox has heard a rumor, his days here are numbered, for Mrs Fox is the city's best gossip. "That's ridiculous."

Steven picks up the beauty patch from the sawdust with his thumb. "Is it, Father?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know if there was a subculture of molly houses in colonial NYC like there were in early 18th century London. Probably not. But I wanted Will in the colonies, for I thought they'd appeal to him. So I decided that there probably were one or two.


	3. Letter 3: Nothing Gold Can Stay

_~~Jack Sparrow~~  
_

_**Captain**_ _Jack Sparrow_

_The Black Pearl_

 

_~~Singapore~~  
_

_~~St Mary's Isle~~  
_

_~~New Providence~~  
_

_Tortuga_

 

All pirate ships weigh anchor in Tortuga eventually. The _Merry Widow_ , the _Ranger_ , and the _Black Pearl_ are simply the latest in a long line of ships to dock alongside the quay. Jack Sparrow brings his plunder to fence in town, but his greatest prize still lies abed in the Captain's quarters, worth two thousand pounds of ransom money, long limbed and sun kissed. Once upon a time that prize might have been higher, but Jack cannot resist the lure of conquering forbidden, virgin territory. It is one of the greatest moral failings of a well spent, well fucked life.

 

In two weeks, he'll grow tired of his prize, but by then the ransom money will be delivered. Though she thinks they'll be wed and the money will become her ill-got dower, nothing could be further from the truth.

 

There's only one person in Jack's life who's ever stolen his heart. He's never let anyone else get close enough since then. And if he is completely honest with himself, he would recognize his part in driving her away.

 

* * *

 

The letter finds its way to him brittle to the touch, it's had a run in with more than one ocean, the wax seal broken long ago. The ransom in question is the latest to read it; she is unashamedly half-clad, red lips set in a sour twist, letter dangling from her fingertips like a dagger.

 

"Who's _Swann_ , Jack?" She throws the letter at his chest and then flings herself to the bed weeping, but Jack has no patience with hysterics, and even less pity for them. Two weeks is too long to wait for ransom money with this wench, wanton in the sack she may be, but he's done with her already. There are a dozen more like her at every port, all willing to throw their maiden and matronly virtue over for a night with Captain Jack Sparrow between their legs.

 

He runs a tired hand through his locs. He needs a clear head, and a fresh eye, like his old first mate. Gibbs is retired now, and lives in his own snug cottage on the other side of the island with his granddaughter and her children. He stuffs the letter in his vest. That's where he'll go, for Joshamee Gibbs may have some answers for him, answers he doesn't want to face in the cabin of the Pearl with that hellcat looking on.

 

* * *

 

 

"Jack Sparrow!" Amelie, Gibbs' granddaughter, is round with child ( _again_ , Jack thinks--does the chit _never_ stop breeding?). She beams from ear to ear, kissing him on both cheeks before he can get a word in edgewise. " _S'il vous plait,_ Captain?"

 

"Savvy, _cherie_." Jack bends over her hand, throwing Amelie into a fit of giggles.

 

"None o' that Frenchy patois, Emmy." Gibbs rests a hand on his granddaughter's shoulder, holding out the other to Jack. "Well, don't block the door, lass! Let him in!"

 

They clasp hands and embrace, in that way of men, with lots of back thumping.

 

"When did you get into port?" Gibbs gestures to the back garden, grabbing a jug of rum from the table and two horn cups.

 

Jack doesn't answer, just trades the letter for the jug without a word. Gibbs looks at the letter, then back at Jack. He opens the envelope and draws the letter out. Jack watches him covertly, busying himself with pouring the rum into cups. How _civilized_ of Gibbs.

 

(This must be Amelie's influence. Isn't that just like a land woman? For the sea wants men untamed.)

 

Gibbs pulls a monocle from his pocket, and holding it to his eye, begins to read the letter, lips shaping each word.

 

_Dear...Sparrow...Doubloons...Louis d'ors...Emeralds...Inca jewels...Wedding... Please come...Daughter._

 

"Well, she knows how to get an old salt's attention, don't she? It sounds like a pirate's wet dream! Gold doubloons... uncut emeralds...pots of Arica bronze... Ours for the taking!" Gibbs leans back in his chair, setting both monocle and letter down. His eyes are gleaming. "I'm in! What say you?" His face falls a little when he notices Jack's expression. "What's the problem?"

 

"A daughter. A daughter!" Jack knocks back his rum and Gibbs' too, then pours them both another cup. "How do I know the brat's even mine?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he can't help but wince.

 

Gibbs shakes his head, fixing him with a look that makes Jack distinctly uncomfortable. "You'd know if you hadn't abandoned her mother sixteen years ago for some fresh faced piece o' muslin just out of the schoolroom."

 

(The past, risen up like a spectre from her watery grave.)

 

Jack holds up his hands. "I'm not the settlin' kind." The sea is a harsh mistress, and she demands utter loyalty.

 

"Aye, but when a man is old, he longs for the love of woman who's honest and true." Gibbs smiles, albeit sadly, lifting his cup. "Regret don't keep a bed warm at night. 'Take what you can, an' give nothin' back' are words for young men, Cap'n. Now," he leans forward with a grin, "let's go claim this treasure."

 

* * *

 

 

Jack may have a daughter, after all, and she's a crafty little baggage for certain, thinking to lure him to Nassau with tales of buried treasure. He leaves behind in Tortuga one ransom, squalling: weeping on her trunk as she waits for a packet boat to take her to Port Royal. As for Jack, he's letting the compass decide where his heart truly lies.

 

(Elizabeth Swann, wherever she is, has a lot to answer for.) 

 

* * *

 

_The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,_

_There was gear there’d make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,_

_Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,_

_Gold doubloons and double moidores, louis d’ors and portagues,_

 

_Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,_

_Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;_

_Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica Bronze,_

_Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons._

 

_..._

 

_I’m the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their ways_

_Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,_

_And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,_

_And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there._

 

"Spanish Waters", John Masefield.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely recommend the poem in its entirety. It's very haunting, in its way.
> 
> "piece of muslin" is another epithet for a "woman of loose morals".


End file.
